


The Finer Points of the Craft

by WickedWiles



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Blacksmith Quest Spoilers, F/M, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Porn with Feelings, Semi-Public Sex, Trapped In A Closet, Unnamed Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:15:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26088562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedWiles/pseuds/WickedWiles
Summary: An encounter long in the making, tempered by fire and molded by adversity and doubt, finally brought to the anvil to take its final shape....okay it's really not that deep.It's Novel Pair month, and Brithael needs more love.
Relationships: Brithael Spade/Warrior of Light
Comments: 14
Kudos: 41
Collections: August Novel Pairing Challenge 2020





	The Finer Points of the Craft

“Forgemaster?”

She could feel his attention shift even without seeing his features. Taking as deep a breath as she could manage, she tried to keep her tone calm and level.

“Why in the _seven bleeding hells_ are we in the supply closet?”

“I tol' ye to stand aside,” Brithael grumbled softly. “Yer own fault for bein' stubborn.”

“I just spent _bells_ getting this in some semblance of order after _you_ let the apprentices destroy it for gods only know how long, I'm not about to let you muck it all up again with...whatever the hells this is.” She prodded his chest with a fingertip as best she could; there wasn't much leverage with her hands trapped between them, the end result of her reflexive attempt to push back against being shoved into the cramped space. It was barely large enough for one person to stand in comfortably, let alone two, regardless of how tightly they were pressed together.

Her eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness, enough to make out the nervous twitch at the edge of his mouth, which was far closer than she'd imagined. A slight tilt and turn of her head while she'd still been unaware, and she'd have _felt_ it rather than seen it; heat flared on her cheeks with the realization, and she looked away quickly, glaring at the shadowy forms of the boxes and ingots stacked beside her.

“I don't know what sort of Twelve-forsaken wind is filling your sail today, but I swear, Byregot's bloody hammer will feel like a _feather_ next to what I'll do if-”

“Keep yer voice _down_ , lass, I'm beggin' ye,” he hissed, and the warmth of his breath near her ear sent an unexpected shiver down her spine.

“ _Sekka_ , good to see ye again!” Randwulf's voice carried through the heavy wooden door, somewhat muffled but still intelligible, and she froze with her mouth open, her readied retort all but forgotten. “We _jus'_ got yer message not more'n a few minutes ago...”

“Sekka? We're hiding in here from _Sekka_?” She snapped her gaze back to him, eyes narrowing, and he winced visibly at her growled whisper. “Brit, you _swore_ you were going to write back and settle things with her, one way or another-”

“I did! I swear on me hammer, I _did_.” His eyes darted to the side as the voices outside dropped to a murmur. “I even went an' got some fancy bloke in the Wench to write it up nice, let her down gentle-like, so I wouldn't make a mess o' things. An' she stop writin' sometime after that, I reckoned she understood...”

She huffed softly, attempting to shift her weight so the shelves weren't digging quite so hard into her back. “So then why the hells are we _in here_? What was the message she sent?”

He inhaled sharply, biting off a small groan. “I- _hells_ , lass, this ain't about _her_ -”

Randwulf's voice picked up in volume again, and they both held their breath momentarily.

“An'. _..Master Shinto_...'tis, um...good to be seein' you again as well, o' course...”

Brithael flinched, his grip on her upper arms squeezing just a little bit tighter, and she could feel him tense everywhere their bodies met. She could _almost_ not blame him for wanting to avoid the Doman smith; the man certainly knew how to put forth an intimidating presence. Particularly if the letter hadn't let Sekka down as 'gentle' as Brithael might have hoped.

“Aye, I'm afraid we ain't seen the forgemaster for a few bells...ye might try the Wench, that's as likely a place as any...”

The minutes dragged on as the voices continued, softer again, indistinguishable from each other. It was naturally warm in the guild, what with the forges going day and night, and being shut in the tiny closet certainly wasn't helping. Small beads of sweat trickled down the back of her neck, and she couldn't help but squirm a little.

“Lass...can ye...be more still?” His whisper was oddly strained, and she was surprised to see him biting his lip as she shot him another glare.

“ _You_ got us into this; not my fault it's hotter than Ifrit's flaming ballsack in here.” She shifted her hips a bit more out of spite, and he made a strange, choked off noise. “Between the sweat tickling my neck, a shelf full of spare tools trying to leave an imprint on my backside, and my arms cramping up, this isn't exactly _comfortable._ ”

He sighed, sending another shiver rippling through her. When had she become so sensitive?

“I know...maybe I can jus'...”

She felt him release one of her arms and he pressed even closer, a feat she hadn't thought possible, reaching past her to feel blindly around the shelves. The complaint poised on the tip of her tongue was abruptly cut off by the feeling of cloth pressed against her skin.

“Better?”

Gods, his lips were damned near touching her ear, his cheek so close to hers she could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, even through the sweltering air. Her pulse was racing – when the hells had _that_ started? – and now she was breathless as well, only able to nod in response, heedless of whether or not he could see it.

He must've figured it out well enough, as he continued to gently wipe the nape of her neck clean for a few more moments before she felt the cloth lift away. Leaning back as much as he could, not but a hairsbreadth further than he'd been to begin with, he glanced down at her hands. Heat washed over her cheeks again, much to her irritation; it wasn't as if she'd _meant_ for them to wind up pressed against his chest, acutely aware of the definition of his toned muscle even through the layers of leather and cloth. She carefully wriggled her forearms sideways until she could slide them along his sides, finding no option but to rest her hands lightly on his hips. It helped a little, and she breathed a sigh of relief at the sensation of being able to stretch her muscles by even the smallest amount. One hand traced the thick belt of his apron, as the other brushed against cool metal, finding the hammer hooked at his hip.

She furrowed her brow. He had it tied more towards the front, she'd been certain; what else could it be that was pressed against her thigh -

_Oh._

No, clearly it was naught but her imagination. She shifted her weight, a subtle but focused movement _right there_ , just to prove to herself that it couldn't be – and he tensed slightly, biting his lip again with a barely audible groan.

Her breath caught in her throat at the confirmation, and her mind blanked, casting about desperately for a response. Annoyance? Embarrassment? Humor? Surely it must be one of those...so why, Twelve preserve her, did she suddenly feel so _warm_ in a way that had naught to do with the temperature of their surroundings?

It pooled deep within, and she couldn't help but wonder what he would do if she were to turn her head _just so_ , parting her lips to taste the softness of his. Her mind wandered, envisioning him letting go of his attempts to hide his arousal, pressing forward to grind his hips against her, moaning freely, the panted heat of his breath and the feel of his lips making _her_ moan in turn. The sounds he might make if she could slip a hand under that apron to palm the tented fabric, to feel the outline of -

The sudden spike of desire that lanced through her startled her out of the daydream, and she moved without thinking, trying to sate the aching _need_ for friction between her thighs. His hold on her shoulder tightened, and his other hand flew to grasp her hip, though whether he thought to still or _encourage_ her, she couldn't tell.

“Lass...”

She'd always liked his voice; it was different from most Lominsan accents, a subtle brogue carried from some unknown past she'd never been able to pry out of him, even deep in his cups at the Wench. But to hear it like _that,_ deep and thick with an emotion she didn't dare name, sent another tremor rippling over her, skin prickling in its wake. And oh, what it did to the growing hunger spiraling in her core...

Light flooded around them, and she had a split-second to register his arms wrapping around her as gravity asserted itself.

The air was knocked from both of them as they tumbled out onto the floor of the guild, landing in an unsightly heap. She blinked a few times against the sudden brightness before she was able push herself up a bit to take stock of the situation.

No Sekka or Shinto in sight, and not even many smiths at that. A soft, amused snort behind her drew her attention, and she glanced up to find Randwulf leaning against the open door, fingers still curled around the handle. He raised an eyebrow down at them; she was suddenly painfully aware that Brithael was underneath her, with his arms still around her waist, and her knees on either side of his hips.

“This...this ain't what it looks like,” the forgemaster sputtered, relinquishing his hold on her faster than an apprentice who forgot his gloves would let go of a white-hot blade. Randwulf rolled his eyes and extended his hand, drawing her to her feet as she tried to ignore the odd sting from Brithael's words.

“Oh? So ye ain't hidin' from yer problems and gettin' yer best smitty caught up in it jus' for havin' the misfortune o' bein' in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

Brithael pulled himself to his feet, rubbing the back of his neck. His face was flushed to a near-crimson hue, which only reminded her of the warmth spreading across her own face.

“I...uh...guess 'tis what it looks like, in that case...” He glanced at her, but she couldn't bring herself to meet his gaze, instead fixing it on the open archway out to the balcony, trying to focus on the hazy line of the horizon. The men continued to talk, but it faded out to a dull buzz, drowned out by the roaring pulse of her heart, still racing, trying to outrun the strangely hollow chill that crept over her.

Without a word, she shook off Randwulf's grasp and strode out towards the fresh air. The voices stopped, and she could damned near feel the eyes following her as she left the guild, her feet carrying her faster and faster, until she was all but sprinting towards the nearest aetheryte.

*****

The guild almost never truly slept; the needs of the Alliance and other customers meant forges running day and night, smiths and apprentices taking shifts to keep up with the demand. The festival was one of the rare exceptions to that, and all the smiths had worked long and hard to ensure their most pressing commissions were completed before sundown.

Save one.

The echoing ring of her hammer went unanswered, feeling strangely empty in the dim light cast from her lone forge. Inspecting the glowing metal, turning it over with her tongs, she sighed heavily before thrusting it back into the blazing coals.

Normally she'd have joined the rest in their celebrations, but she was running out of time to complete her projects. Only tonight remained, and then _he_ would return. Not that she'd been avoiding him for the past couple of weeks or anything like that. Certainly not. She'd just...had other places to be in what little spare time she had. It was perfectly normal to spend it somewhere else for a change. She definitely wasn't doing it because of a completely insignificant incident that meant absolutely nothing. Two people in tight quarters was bound to get a reaction, no matter who they were. It wasn't...what it had looked like.

She wiped the sweat from her brow, leaning against the anvil as she watched the coals shifting through their fiery hues.

It didn't mean a thing...so why was she still remembering the press of him against her like it had happened only bells ago? Why the hells did she wake up in the middle of the night to find that coiled ember of desire deep within, the ghost of his voice fading with her dreams? Why couldn't she look over at that godsdamned door without her face flushing? Utter foolishness.

Still, the radiating warmth from the forge brought to mind the closeness of his skin, the way his breath felt, puffed against her ear. And gods, she could almost hear the way he said –

“Lass?”

She stumbled ungracefully, her weight slipping off the anvil as she startled, trying and failing to catch herself before she wound up on her arse on the floor. Brithael raised a concerned eyebrow at her as he leaned over the railing from the raised area above the forges.

“Ye ain't hurt, are ye?”

She pulled herself back to her feet slowly. “No, just...surprised. You're...back early.” Seven hells, she _still_ couldn't look him in the eye.

“Favorable winds.” He disappeared from sight for a moment as he headed for the stairs, and she busied herself pulling the metal from the forge, laying it back on the anvil. “Wasn't expectin' to find anyone here.”

“'Tis an important piece...couldn't put it off.” She hefted her hammer, bringing it down with a strike that was less steady than she'd have liked. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him step fully into the light, and her next strike was even more unsteady. The heavy leather apron and gloves that he usually wore in the guild were gone – sensibly so, for they were not only not needed, but possibly actively detrimental on a sea voyage – and the black haltered shirt he always wore under it afforded a _wide_ view of his arms and chest. The way the light and shadow played over his muscles tempted her to look more fully, but she turned her face away, forcing herself to concentrate on her work.

“Good to know ye haven't been slackin',” he chuckled, leaning against the wall, keeping his distance from the leaping sparks. “Been hard to tell, since we ain't seen much of ye around lately.”

She felt herself tense. That was the last thing she wanted to talk about right now. Taking a deep breath, she brought the hammer down in a few more quick blows as her mind cast about for another subject.

“How was the ceremony?” She tried to keep her tone light, but somehow it came out rushed and breathless.

“'Twas...nice. Not as different as I was expectin', truth be told. They got their odd traditions in Kugane, t'be sure, but then I reckon some o' ours seem the same to them.” His voice softened as he continued. “Sekka wanted me to pass on to ye that she understood why ye couldn't be there...an' she damn near bawled when I gave her that hairpiece ye made.”

She relaxed somewhat, a regretful smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I'm still sorry I missed it.” She hadn't wanted to, not even because of...certain events, but when the Scions called...she had to answer.

“Aye, 'twould have been nice if someone had been there to distract ol' Shinto.” She could imagine him shudder even without looking, and had to stifle a smile. “Glarin' at me like I rusted his stock o' steel the whole damn day.”

“You're lucky she fell for that samurai as hard as he did for her and her work,” she laughed in spite of herself, giving him a sly glance. “She showed me that letter you sent when she came to invite us, you know.”

This felt...right. Like things were back to normal. What the hells had she been so worried about?

His face blanched. “Ah...er...she did, did she?”

“She did. And that's exactly what you get for hiring drunken bards with vague instructions to deal with your problems. Had to squint real hard to find the 'letting her down easy' in all that amorous poetry.” She shook her head, grinning. “I'm mostly surprised Shinto didn't come after your head right away.”

“I ain't ever gonna hear the end o' that one, am I?” He rubbed the back of his neck with a grimace, then looked out towards the balcony, his voice softening with affection. “She's gonna do real well, I think. I'm happy for her.”

“Aye.” She turned her focus back to her work, trying to fight back an abrupt surge of guilt. She _was_ happy for Sekka...but also _relieved,_ because maybe now she could stop being ashamed of how she'd felt for the past moon, and of the sinking dread she'd felt when her friend first confessed having feelings for him. Maybe she could...

_She could admit that she'd cared for him herself all along._

The epiphany startled her, and she stopped mid-swing as the hammer nearly slipped from her grasp.

“Somethin' amiss?”

“...nay, just...reconsidering my...approach.”

They lapsed into silence, backed by the low rumble of the forge, broken only by the ringing of metal on metal as she worked. She fully expected him to wander off to join the festivities, or at the very least excuse himself to the Wench; instead he just pulled himself up to sit on a nearby stack of crates, leaning forward to observe.

It wasn't unheard of for him to oversee the finishing of a project, but to choose to do so over a free chance to get drunk? That was unsettling. She dared to sneak a few glances out of the corner of her eye as she continued shaping the rapidly cooling metal into a delicate, graceful blade; he wasn't paying the slightest bit of attention to the piece as she brought her hammer down again and again, his gaze fixed on her face.

It was all she could do to stop her hands from shaking as she removed her gloves and pulled out her file, setting to work on the finer details.

“Lass.”

She froze at the surprising proximity of his voice. His hand covered hers where she gripped the file so tightly her knuckles were almost white, and she could feel him leaning over her shoulder, his chest pressed against her back. Her heart started racing again like it'd never settled from the last time she'd seen him, and heat flared across her face, mercifully hidden by the fiery glow of the forge.

Right. _This_ was what she'd been worried about.

“Not so hard...ye'll wear yer fingers out 'fore ye get anywhere, an' make a mess o' the design besides.” Her fingers were gently coaxed into a looser hold on the tool. “...but ye hardly need me to tell ye that sort o' thing anymore.” He released her hand and stepped back, and she felt the corners of her mouth curving down at the loss of contact before she caught herself, forcing her expression to remain impassive.

“So why don't ye tell ol' Brithael what's got ye so troubled that ye'd be handling yer tools like a green recruit.”

She looked away, glaring at the fire dancing in the forge. If she met his eyes, her composure would surely break, and he would read the truth on her face. He would run from her as he had from Sekka.

She couldn't take that chance.

“I'm just...tired.”

Silence reigned again for a long moment.

“Best hold off on finishin' 'til tomorrow, if that's the case. Not much sense startin' if it ain't got a chance o' turnin' out how ye want.”

She huffed softly, the words hitting closer to home than she would have liked. “Right.”

He didn't say anything further, moving back as she put aside her work, dousing the fire and plunging the guild into relative darkness, though the moonlight was strong enough to almost replace the unlit lamps, with the occasional burst of color from the festive explosions in the night sky. It wasn't until she'd removed her protective gear, hanging her apron neatly over the side of the anvil that she heard him inhale deeply.

“Lass...'bout what happened...I jus' wanted to-”

_Shite._

“Nothing happened, Brit. It was...it was warm, and the quarters were close...it would have been the same for anyone.” She waved a hand in what she hoped was a nonchalant manner, unbuckling her tool belt and coiling it next to the apron, scowling at her trembling fingers.

“No...it weren't that.” Maybe he flushed, or perhaps it was just a touch of crimson from the fireworks outside. “Well, aye, it was some o' that, but what I mean to say is...” He paused, his gaze darting about nervously, as if looking for some sort of guidance. “Hells, I been in tight spots with folk now an' then, but...”

The smart thing to do would be to just walk away, to lose herself in the festival before he said something that would make _her_ say something that would bring everything crumbling down. But her body was being obstinate, refusing to move, honed in on the shifting colors that played over his face with every soft _pop_ of a new firework blooming in the distance.

He took another deep breath. “Ye see...I know I gave me oath to treat ye no different than any other smitty here, an' I've _tried_ , lass, but the truth o' the matter is that ye _are_ different. An' it ain't jus' yer skill or bein' a bleedin' hero to boot.” His brow furrowed, and he looked out towards the balcony. “When ye ain't here, the whole place jus' feels a bit...darker. An' I'd be lyin' if I said I didn't... _like_...what happened none.”

He closed the distance with slow, careful steps, as if he were either fighting his own feet or perhaps trying not to startle her. Her heart leapt like a caged animal in her chest, and she could do naught but watch as he drew near, leaning back against the anvil to steady herself.

The sight of him reaching towards her suddenly reminded her of the state she must be in; she needed no mirror to know she'd gotten soot streaked across her forehead and cheeks as she worked, and sweat-dampened hair still clung to the side of her face.

“I'm a mess,” she protested, ducking away from his reach.

“Aye.” His tone was a warm caress that sent shivers down her spine. “Reckon that makes a pair o' us.” Transfixed by his wry smile, she held perfectly still as he reached for her again, brushing a lock of hair away from her face. He hesitated, his hand hovering for a moment before he curled his fingers into his palm and let it drop to his side.

“...I ain't much good with fancy words, not the kind ye deserve. I reckon ye've heard all sorts o' fine, flowery talk from all the noble folk ye've been off savin'...but I jus' - ye should know...”

He must've found some reserve of courage, for his hand returned to rest lightly on her cheek, his thumb swiping over one of the smears of soot that stained her skin.

“I've never seen ye look more beautiful than ye do right this moment, lass.”

The words and the touch of his calloused fingers were all it took to bring her aching need back from a haunting memory to a very urgent reality, and she damn near choked on her sharply inhaled breath. Oh, she was well and truly doomed now.

“What...what _exactly_ are you saying, Brithael?” She felt like smacking her own forehead as soon as the words left her lips. Of all the clumsy, idiotic –

“I'm sayin'...I'd sorely love to kiss ye, lass.” His face flushed, and it definitely wasn't just the color from the fireworks this time.

Before she even realized what she was doing, she'd pulled him in by the straps of his shirt and pressed her lips to his.

He was softer than she'd expected, pliant and yielding before her, parting to accept her tongue when she teased it experimentally across his bottom lip. His passivity only lasted for a moment, the warmth of his hand sliding around to the nape of her neck as he responded in kind, eagerly meeting her explorations with his own. Long moments flew by, and she could feel her body starting to yearn for breath, but a cold swell of fear rose and she gripped him tighter, not wanting to pull away.

If she let go, he might change his mind and flee from her.

When she was forced to submit to the demand for air, they separated, panting. His hand was still on the back of her neck, and he didn't seem inclined to move it, even as he swore softly under his breath. It felt like forever before she found her voice again,and even then it was little more than a breathy chuckle.

“Was that...that _all_ you had to say, forgemaster?”

He huffed, unable to hide his smile. “Ain't even the _start_ o' it.”

His body pressed closer as he pulled her back into another heated kiss, and she could feel something that she sure as hells knew wasn't a hammer twitch against her. His other hand roamed over her back, tugging the hem of her shirt up a bit to slip underneath. The gentle drag of his fingertips up her spine was _heavenly_ ; had it really been so long since someone had simply _touched_ her bare skin?

Her skin tingled in the wake of his fingers, and she almost whined when the touch withdrew and he pulled back. She leaned forward to chase his mouth without realizing it, and he chuckled softly, looking down at the slightly pebbled skin on her arms as his thumb rubbed lazy circles on the back of her neck.

“Yer shakin', lass.”

“Feels nice,” she murmured, letting her hands wander over his shoulders, mapping the lines of muscle, following them down his arms. “Please...keep going?” She felt herself flush, the words sounding foolish to her own ears.

His eyes widened, and he mumbled something unintelligible before he claimed her mouth again. She felt his hand splayed across her lower back, crushing her to him as he rolled his hips forwards, the evidence of his excitement even clearer now, grinding against her. She hummed her approval against his lips, her hands roving back to his shoulders and up to push his bandana off, sending his goggles clattering to the ground, allowing her to thrust her fingers into the soft, dark hair underneath.

She had to break away from the kiss to suck in a sharp breath as his hands moved under her shirt, this time trailing up her sides to palm her breasts through the simple cloth band that confined them. Her head fell forward onto his shoulder, and he took the opportunity to seal his lips over her pulse, sucking and nipping at her skin while he fondled her chest. She moaned his name softly, her eyes fluttering almost closed.

“Swivin' _hells_.” The heat of his breath swept over her skin with the whispered curse. His touch left her again, but before she could protest, he was tugging her shirt up, and she allowed him to pull it over her head and cast it aside.

Doubt crept through the haze of pleasant exhilaration, nagging. Would he see her scars and be reminded of who she was, just how _dangerous_ she could be? It wouldn't be the first time that –

His lips closed around the tight peak of a nipple through the fabric, circling his tongue around it, and her thoughts scattered at the damp heat soaking through the thin cloth. Arching her back, her fingers tangled in his hair again, seeking something to ground her as the sensation washed over her, desire pulsing from her core with every flick of his tongue. He moved his focus to the other side, and she hissed softly at the kiss of cool air left in his wake that only made her ache for more.

She shouldn't be this _undone_ already, and yet the simplest of his touches was threatening to drive her mad. He made quick work of the hidden catch at the back of the band, and soon she didn't even have what little buffer it had provided, his mouth and fingers catching bare, over-eager flesh.

She would have cursed every wanton moan that slipped free, beyond her ability to stifle, save for the effect they seemed to be having on _him_. His eyes were blown wide and dark when he glanced up at her, the brilliant aqua pushed to naught but a thin ring by his own unrestrained hunger. Seizing upon the chance to regain some control, she tugged his hair, pulling his head up.

“My turn to inspect _your_ work, forgemaster...” She shifted her hips forward, delighting in the gasp it elicited.

It was only a matter of moments to get his shirt off, though she still considered ripping the straps out of impatience. Her eyes roved greedily over his broad chest, cut and refined by the years at his trade, not softened in the slightest by his time as guild master. She bit her lower lip in anticipation when she met his gaze again, and his mouth quirked in a flustered grin.

“Yer gonna be the end o' me if-”

His imagined demise was choked off into a groan as she bent her head to trace a line from sternum to collarbone with her tongue. Her fingertips trailed lightly down the firm planes of muscle, reveling in the way they moved under her touch, rising and falling in time with his panted breath, growing quicker the farther her hands strayed. Teasing a fingertip along the waistband of his pants, she smiled to herself at his trembling sigh, then pressed the palm of her hand along the prominent bulge in the fabric.

He swore again, broken and incoherent, hands gripping her waist tightly. The feeling of his arousal, warm even through the cloth, fairly _jumping_ under her touch stole not only her breath but any shred of hesitation that might have remained. White-hot need raced through her every nerve, stoked to an inferno by the intensity of his response. Her fingers scrabbled clumsily with the fastening of his belt, and she whined her frustration against his skin, trying to sate herself in some small measure by tasting him with desperate, open-mouthed kisses across his chest.

“Lass... _oh_ , _Twelve_...” His hands slid around to her lower back, dipping under the waistband of her own pants, the feeling of his grip on her backside almost enough to distract her from her goal, yearning to have him pull her close, to feel his length pressed against her core again.

But she would not be swayed, not until she could touch him fully, skin against wonderfully soft, heated skin. With a soft growl of triumph, she finally cast his belt aside and pushed down trousers and smallclothes alike, freeing him from their confines.

Her elation was short-lived, only barely having a chance to brush her hand along his firm, velvety shaft before he went to his knees, out of her reach. She started to grumble a protest, only to have it cut off in a gasp as he gave a hard _tug_ downwards, not caring an onze for the fate of her trouser lacings as they yielded to his strength. Her smallclothes went with only slightly more delicacy, and she found herself gripping his hair again as he nuzzled against her inner thigh.

Her vision swam as her arousal spiraled into a near-frenzy, leaving her trembling and moaning just from the warm puff of his breath against her. Her hips rocked forward of their own accord, and when his tongue slipped between her folds, licking a slow, searing trail up to lap at her clit, she had to fight the impulse to push his head forward, to hold him there.

“ _Ah_! Oh, _hells_...Brit...”

He looked up at her with a mix of lust and wonder, the brief burst of a distant golden firework reflecting off the slick that clung to his chin.

“Yer so _wet_...jus'...for me?” His fingertips pressed into her thighs, and she could feel him trembling with the effort of restraint. “I... _fuck,_ lass...”

“ _Please,_ ” she breathlessly answered the unspoken question, hooking a finger under the leather collar around his neck and tugging him upwards. His hands moved under her thighs as he stood, lifting her to sit just on the very edge of the anvil. Crushing their lips together, she moaned against him at the faint taste of herself on his tongue. She was only dimly aware of him haphazardly yanking her boots off, sliding her legs free of the last of her clothes, too lost in the feeling of his body against hers.

Both of them were burning, a softer heat than that of the forge, but no less consuming.

Her legs wrapped around him, drawing him even closer, the thought of even an ilm of air between them absolutely unbearable. He rolled his hips forward in response, length gliding along her core, and she arched her back in wordless invitation.

Their panted curses tripped over each other as he began to press into her heat; her hands roved mindlessly over his arms and chest and shoulders, unable to settle as each gentle push brought a new surge of delicious sensation. With one last swift movement they were fully joined, his hands firmly on her hips, her arms finally stilled and wrapped around his neck.

A strange sort of calm took over as they rested their foreheads against each other. She planted feather-light kisses on the corner of his mouth, and he smiled gently before pulling his hips back, easing slowly forward again. Tightening her grip as the rich surge of pleasure suffused her completely, she let her eyes flutter closed, whispering his name over and over again, a longing prayer.

Time may as well have stopped as they rocked against each other, their moans and sighs mingling, broken by heated kisses and the occasional soft curse. The friction of his chest against hers was utter _bliss_ , sending spikes of ecstasy through the steady pulse that was building upon each movement, each whispered encouragement and exclamation.

She placed a hand on either side of his face, her fingertips tracing his cheekbones, trying to will her mind to etch the moment in perfect memory. He smiled, turning to kiss one of her palms, and as simple as that, she was lost.

For all that she'd been reveling in the slow build to the precipice, she was wholly taken by surprise when she tumbled over it, clenching around him with a hoarse cry, her legs trembling, barely able to keep their hold on his waist.

He moaned, his eyes drifting half-shut, and only picked up his pace, thrusting into her faster and harder, the ripples of her release still washing over her.

“ _Lass_...ye feel...so bleedin' _good_...I can't... _swivin' hells_... _please_...”

She nuzzled the side of his neck, let her lips brush against his ear. “Aye...let go for me, Brithael.”

He tensed, muffling his shout against her shoulder as she felt him twitch deep within. His hips gave a few more erratic thrusts before he stilled, slumping forward against her, leaning in to her embrace.

She smoothed her hands down his back, breathing deep of his scent, forge-fire and sweat and sea air. Slowly, the rest of the world crept back into her perception, and heat flared across her cheeks; had they really just rutted like animals in the middle of the guild, on a damned _anvil_ , no less?

“Brit...”

He gave a sated hum in response to her murmur, not lifting his head.

“This anvil is bloody cold.”

She felt the puff of air as he snorted, his shoulders shaking with his deep chuckle.

“Aye, lass.” Straightening with a soft sigh, he gently lifted her from her precarious perch, supporting her weight for a moment as she tested unsteady legs. He didn't fully relinquish his touch, hands resting lightly on her arms. “There's a proper bed in the guildmaster's quarters...if yer agreeable to it, o' course...”

They were still so close their chests were brushing against each other with each breath. She arched a brow at him, uncertain hope parching her throat and grating against her voice.

“That would depend on what I'm agreeing to, wouldn't it?”

Twelve, his eyes were _burning_ , an intensity she'd rarely seen from him before about anything save for smithing.

“If yer willin' to teach...ain't never too late to start masterin' new skills, I reckon. And learnin' how to make ye call out like that for me's a trade I'd gladly ply to the end of me days.” She could feel him resist the urge to pull her closer again, giving her the option to break away.

Her heart tripped over itself, but her mouth curved into a smirk, her mind flashing back to a warm afternoon that felt like an age past now. She leaned in, her lips naught but a hairsbreadth from his, dropping her tone to mimic his soft brogue.

“'Twould be my great pleasure to instruct ye in the finer points o' the craft, lad.”

**Author's Note:**

> I love one (1) Lominsan forgemaster. <3 Crafting NPCs need love too!
> 
> Also he says 'lass' like Brynjolf from Skryim, because they didn't give him any voice acting and I've decided it is so, dammit. ^_^
> 
> Join the [Discord](https://discord.gg/enabling-debauched-xivfic) if you want a wonderful group of people who will supply a boundless font of inspiration for your niche (or not so niche) thirsts. xD


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